“I have been enjoying myself among the most hospitable people in the world.”

Mr. Sarrazin shook his head; he had a case of copyright in hand just then.  “A people to be pitied,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because their Government forgets what is due to the honor of the nation.”

“How?”

“In this way.  The honor of a nation which confers right of property in works of art, produced by its own citizens, is surely concerned in protecting from theft works of art produced by other citizens.”

“That’s not the fault of the people.”

“Certainly not.  I have already said it’s the fault of the Government.  Let’s attend to the fish now.”

Randal took his friend’s advice.  “Good sauce, isn’t it?” he said.

The epicure entered a protest.  “Good?” he repeated.  “My dear fellow, it’s absolute perfection.  I don’t like to cast a slur on English cookery.  But think of melted butter, and tell me if anybody but a foreigner (I don’t like foreigners, but I give them their due) could have produced this white wine sauce?  So you really had no particular motive in going to America?”

“On the contrary, I had a very particular motive.  Just remember what my life used to be when I was in Scotland—­and look at my life now!  No Mount Morven; no model farm to look after; no pleasant Highland neighbors; I can’t go to my brother while he is leading his present life; I have hurt Catherine’s feelings; I have lost dear little Kitty; I am not obliged to earn my living (more’s the pity); I don’t care about politics; I have a pleasure in eating harmless creatures, but no pleasure in shooting them.  What is there left for me to do, but to try change of scene, and go roaming around the world, a restless creature without an object in life?  Have I done something wrong again?  It isn’t the pepper this time—­and yet you’re looking at me as if I was trying your temper.”

The French side of Mr. Sarrazin’s nature had got the better of him once more.  He pointed indignantly to a supreme preparation of fowl on his friend’s plate.  “Do I actually see you picking out your truffles, and putting them on one side?” he asked.

“Well,” Randal acknowledged, “I don’t care about truffles.”

Mr. Sarrazin rose, with his plate in his hand and his fork ready for action.  He walked round the table to his friend’s side, and reverently transferred the neglected truffles to his own plate.  “Randal, you will live to repent this,” he said solemnly.  “In the meantime, I am the gainer.”  Until he had finished the truffles, no word fell from his lips.  “I think I should have enjoyed them more,” he remarked, “if I had concentrated my attention by closing my eyes; but you would have thought I was going to sleep.”  He recovered his English nationality, after this, until the dessert had been placed on the table, and the waiter was ready to leave the room.  At that auspicious moment, he underwent another relapse.  He insisted on sending his compliments and thanks to the cook.